The more we learn through calm engagement of racists, the more we understand the root causes. Self-hatred, parental abuse, moms who were subjugated servants, the crass collage; the bleachbright hoods of ultimate cowardice: “I will declare myself the ultimate arbiter of God’s justice, but I’ll do it in disguise.”

Yeah, you so macho.

Thanks to Roger and Mrs. Nesbitt at ABC Wednesday for getting my righteous indignation flowing over the letter “C.” Just remember, I could have picked a worse word!! Peace, Amy

Dedicated to Riley’s Oma (“grandma” in German), Hanna Weinberger, who escaped Auschwitz two weeks before the Liberation, emigrated to America, married, and had two sons. Also dedicated to the man she married, Leonard Weinberger, and their sons, Rob and Roy.

Many followers of the Christ assume only they are going to Heaven. Even worse, within Christianity, there are pickers and choosers; they claim to speak for God and freely condemn all sorts of people, just like the Pharisees did in their day. So this is dedicated to the harder hearts among Jesus’ legacy, sure the Rapture is just around the bend and rubbing their hands in delight and/or angst about all us miserable folks who are surely going to Hell.

Honey, Hell is right here on earth… just look in a crack den. I don’t believe in the Rapture. Jesus said love God and each other. God is LOVE! Can I get an “amen”? Amy

For Trifecta Friday: Write a horror poem or story in exactly 33 words, without employing the following words: blood, scream, died, death, knife, gun, or kill. I chose this true story because for me, there is nothing more frightening than to put oneself in the shoes of a victim of hate crime, and Emmett Till’s death and public funeral were key to the outrage that sparked the Civil Rights Movement, a cause my mother believed in deeply and outspokenly.

Poets United asked for poems regarding “this time of year,” the regrets, the emotions that run high. In my case, so many bridges have been burned at the holidays… tempers in my circles flare, often to the detriment of even long-term relationships. And so I offer this poem. Peace, Amy

Repairers of the Breach

When all is said and done and
undone, then soddered together once more,
the saddest truth is this:

You’ll never go back in time.
No mulligans on misspeaking,
no second tries on bitter partings.

Bridges burned are seldom rebuilt,
the breach often irreparable, final…
or so it seems.

So strive to remember that God gave us
two ears and one mouth – a ratio
reflecting God’s common sense.

Listen for the resonant truth with respect;
forgive other folks’ harmless blather,
unless it is prejudiced and hateful.

(Sometimes you must walk away from hatred,
homophobia, racism and such, for reasons
of conscience in the face of recalcitrant bigots.)

Try to leave the bridge burning to others.
If the bridge be burnt, let it be for the right reason.
Live in love, as repairers of the breach.